


Autonomic Responses

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 05:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This minor piece was inspired by the rather numerous dead bodies we've seen. I refuse to believe that Jim always handles it well, and who should help him through it but our beloved Blair?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autonomic Responses

Disclaimers: I don't 'own' these characters - the lucky people at Pet Fly Productions and Paramount do. They are being borrowed without permission, but no infringement is intended. I make no money (and neither should you). However, I hold the copyright on the words that follow.

Notes:  What should I say? No one dies. No one has sex. There is a certain ick-factor, but since we're all grownups here (regardless of chronological age) I'm sure we can deal with it in a mature manner. <author firmly removes tongue from cheek> Oh, and bonus points to those who can name the speaker of the quote mentioned.

It is entirely possible that I've broken show cannon with this little missing scene -- but some of the "errors" may be poetic license. Please point out my mistakes (or send me any comments you have) because I still haven't seen more than a handful of episodes.

Many thanks to my beta readers: Debbie, Laura, Wolfling, Jeana, Nora, and especially the tireless Charly. Needless to say, all errors are my own fault.

Summary:  This minor piece was inspired by the rather numerous dead bodies we've seen. I refuse to believe that Jim always handles it well, and who should help him through it but our beloved Blair?

**Autonomic Responses ("Poachers" missing scene)**

by 

Chaomath November 1997

Blair stood over the body, watching Jim's face slide from controlled annoyance to controlled rage. Others didn't, or couldn't, see it, but he read his partner's body language without hesitation. They only saw the calm exterior, the quick smile, the paradoxically distancing hand on the shoulder. But Blair knew the care with which such a facade was created--and he knew that on rare occasions when the mask did slip, anger was the usual outcome. He just didn't know why Jim was angry.

Blair's train of thought derailed as a strip of bright yellow caught his eye. Yellow tape. Such a silly thing, he thought. As if a few strips of flimsy plastic could prevent access; they wouldn't even warn that someone had entered the site. They relied on social convention, an aversion to breaking the rules--all things that criminals by definition ignored. No, that yellow tape wasn't there to keep people out; it was authority's way of saying 'something BAD happened here.' This is now Our Territory. Bad Things happened here, and if you're not One of Us, and you dare to cross the MAGICAL-YELLOW-POLICE-LINE-DO-NOT-CROSS, Bad Things may happen to you. The modern-day equivalent of ghostly hauntings.

Blair shook his head to clear the thought. He remembered getting out of the truck just a few minutes ago. He had tried to defuse the elaborate pissing-contest brewing between the police and the two investigators from Fish & Wildlife with a bit of humor. Just a few well-aimed barbs at his partner's love-life (or lack thereof); after all, it didn't take Dr.

Ruth to see that the antagonism between Jim and the brazen beauty (as Blair had dubbed her) was rooted in mutual attraction.

But his thinly-veiled attempts to needle Jim had backfired. He remembered his extremely lame and almost whiny finishing riposte, "Whatever," and cringed. What the hell made him say that? Just because he was losing the argument. Losing to Jim. Losing to Jim on a subject he should have no trouble with. After all, *Blair* had no trouble filling his bed, and, whether you liked it or not, that was what society said a guy his age should be doing. Unlike Jim, who rarely went out with someone twice. Jim should have been a prime target for Blair's teasing, but instead his calm deflection had made Blair's arguments self-destruct in a single, childish word. "Whatever."

He hadn't long to dwell on it at the time, though, as Jim's reflexively outflung hand broadcast a warning so clear that his body instantly tensed, preparing for the attack. The protecting, controlling gesture communicated all Blair needed to know, but his stubborn brain opened his mouth before he could censor himself. A few unnecessary words, then the shattering gunfire killed the silent air.

The next moments were a blur, a frantic race through the undergrowth following Jim--Jim's shadow, as always. Scared of moving, terrified of being left alone. Another deafening burst of gunfire and then the single, swift motion of Jim aiming and firing, the bright noise of a lone shot, and now he was standing over the body.

The body. When did it become 'the body'? When did he cease to be 'the enemy,' and become just another object in the environment?

He stared at the braid of the man lying face down in the dirt, wondering how long it took to grow it. A small hole, stretched around the edges as if it had snagged on something, disfigured the shirt [shock] and an odd shadow spread down his--its?--side. Blair realized in a whirl of unease that it was blood, dark blood, slowly soaking through his--its--shirt. [Am I in shock?] He was breathing hard, either from the running or from something worse, and he felt strangely disconnected. Absently he looked down at his legs to make sure they were still there, and he saw the tremor in his knees. He wanted to move away, fast, to run, to just get away from the body and its slowly spreading pool of blood, but seemed unable to translate the desire into action. Fascinated, he watched the blood seep into the packed earth, helpless to tear his eyes away.

"Fuck!"

The nearly shouted word was laden with malice. Blair recoiled from the sound, turning to see Jim's inexplicable rage written across his body.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

Jim was shouting now, and Blair moved toward him, his frozen state broken by Jim's voice. Broken body, blood, bullet holes--Blair turned his back on all of it and faced Jim.

"Stupid punk! Why did he make me kill him?" Jim said, turning his outraged gaze on Blair. "Huh? Why!"

Jim was breathing hard, furious, as if his frustration could wring the answer out of Blair. Suddenly he grabbed Blair by the shoulders, holding him in place to bear the anger. "He didn't even know how to handle the

goddamn thing--just a stupid punk with a weapon to make himself feel like a big man. Fucking loser! Running in the open like that, not even attempting to use his cover, not thinking... I should *never* have been able to take him out that easily, not with just a stupid little handgun."

As Jim's voice ricocheted inside his head, competing with the ringing in his ears, Blair saw things spinning out of control. Jim was so big, it was easy for him to physically dominate his smaller partner. In fact, it was almost second nature. And one day it was sure to get Blair hurt, hurt very badly. But not today. [Please not today.] Blair narrowly managed to keep the panic out of his voice as he started, "Jim, man, calm down--"

"Don't you see, Blair?" Jim broke in, shaking Blair for emphasis. "Don't you get it? He shouldn't have died! He didn't *have* to die. Fuck it all, he should either be long gone or he should be in custody. Not lying in the bloody dirt." Jim shook with emotion, his face a fractured mask of anger and fear staring down at Blair.

[But he must be coming out of it...he said my name...he connected with me.]

"Don't you see? Now he's no good to anyone. Just a fucking waste."

[Or maybe he's not.] Jim's unsteady breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed clearing, and Blair's arms ached in Jim's strong grip. He stared at the wild, arctic eyes, trying to find the man inside them. The man who rarely swore because it didn't fit his image of control, the man who was so uptight he wouldn't let anyone drive his truck, the man who could bring home a dress for a girl he barely knew. There was no trace of that man in the unquiet countenance before him, but Blair carried his burden as Guide next to his heart. Incredibly, this was more frightening than what had gone before; yet at the same time an odd calm grew within him.

[Maybe I can't deal with maniacs shooting at me with an Uzi--was it an Uzi? I should know about these parts of Jim's world--but a half-crazy Sentinel is just up my alley.] Blair pulled his wits together and tried again to reach him. In a soft voice he said, "Jim. You know you had no choice."

"Choice? No, I didn't have any fucking choice!" Jim said angrily, but the stark edge of panic was receding from his reply.

[Okay, Guide, get it together.] Blair continued, "So *he* had the choice, not you. *He* did something dumb, not you." Blair resisted the urge to yell at him 'You saved my life, you idiot! Don't you dare feel guilty about that!' If he did, he wouldn't be able to keep the panic out of his voice. He stared at Jim, willing him to understand.

"But he didn't know that I'm...that I'm a Sentinel and couldn't miss..." Jim began, and then abruptly backed down with a bleak, "Yeah, okay." Dropping his hands, he straightened and looked Blair directly in the eyes as if just noticing him. A hint of petulance crept into his voice. "Okay, okay, you're right... Shit. Why do I always have to kill them?" With that final, clipped sentence Jim turned around and headed toward the woods, so obviously broadcasting his desire to be alone that under different circumstances, Blair might have laughed. Instead, he sagged in relief. 

Watching Jim stalk away, Blair marveled at how quickly Jim's temper was back under control and worried at how readily his anger turned inward. [But I did all he'll ever let me do.] Blair took a deep breath and let it out with a uneven sigh.

His eyes turned back to the body, and he noticed that it provoked no untoward responses this time. It was simply a part of the landscape, an object to be dealt with, but no cause for concern. That it had once been a living human being was not a lost point, but simply one that had been overshadowed by other needs. Needs. An accurate word. He watched Jim from a distance and saw him pull his cell phone from his coat. Apparently, his needs had been met.

[And maybe mine have, too.] The shaky feeling was gone, as though the flight-or-fight his body expected had been resolved. [I wonder what talking down a crazed Sentinel counts as? Hardly a flight, so it must be fight.] He'd already done the flight part earlier--but maybe that didn't count since he wasn't running *from* the danger, from the hunter. No, he was running *with* the hunter, as it turned out. A cynical half-smile twisted his lips. [Geez, five minutes ago you were to wondering if you were gonna puke, and now you're making jokes?]

[Needs... Yeah, well, it *is* nice to be needed.] Blair stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked slowly around the sprawled form, giving the gun a wide berth. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but he never really liked guns. It wasn't the violence, necessarily--as a student of anthropology he was well-versed in violence. Whenever forced to put his dislike into words, he usually bluffed his way out saying 'I'm more of a whack-em-over-the-head-with-a-club kinda guy'. Perhaps it was the unnatural quality of creating and using a tool that existed solely to cause death. Knives could do other useful things, and the crime-story 'blunt instrument' was just your basic stick in the end.

And there was something seductive about guns, too. Something about the power to take someone's life jacked up your ego to unimaginable heights. The sleek, heavy metal was just too thrilling to ignore, and the sexual aspect was just too obvious. What was that quote about boys and guns in the movies? They couldn't get their dicks out so they got their guns out instead?

[Well, *this* gun isn't what I'd call sexy.] The black submachine gun lay like a perverse arthropod in the dust, all bumps and notches with no sense of beauty or style. As the wind picked up and scattered the clouds, a shaft of sunlight beat its way through the trees to gleam dully on the dark metal. Blair shivered involuntarily, then crazily wondered if the gun would be warm to the touch. The sunlight was fitful, and not enough to warm him, but was it enough to heat the cold chunk of metal that had signed this guy's death-notice? He pushed the morbid thought aside by turning to how he was going to stay warm if the temperature continued to drop.

[What did I say? No, no, I don't need a jacket, Jim. It's just a ride up to Polk's cabin for quick look-see. Sure. Now we'll be stuck here for hours, no doubt.]

[But Jim, ever-prepared boy scout that he is, brought a jacket. Not that he needs one; the guy is a regular furnace compared to me. So...all I have to do is be appropriately humble and take the crap he'll inevitably dish out, and I can be nice and warm.]

[No time like the present,] he thought, and turned in Jim's direction. But Jim was nowhere to be seen. Blair stopped, instantly unsure where he had last seen Jim. All the trees looked alike, and the forest seemed loud now, with the breeze stirring the thick trees. Even the birds had returned. His hands, free of his pockets although he didn't remember removing them, were clammy with sweat as he forced himself to ignore the prick of unreasoning fear as the image of the bloody body snuck into his mind. It was behind him, he knew that, and it wasn't getting up, he knew that, too. He scanned the trees again, more carefully and with rising desperation.

Then he saw a bright patch that had to be Jim's canvas coat. But he should see a tall swatch, clothing Jim's wide shoulders, instead of--

[Oh, no. Damn.]

Blair ran, crashing heedlessly past bushes and unruly branches. As he got closer, he saw his first impression was correct. Jim was doubled over, one hand leaning on a tree, the other braced on his knee, obviously vomiting. The strong fingers curled claw-like into the tree trunk, and then he was at Jim's side. One arm curled around Jim's waist to brace his stomach as it spasmed, the other hand held Jim's forehead. He leaned into Jim, supporting him as best he could while Jim continued to retch. Judging by the state of the ground, Blair guessed that his last meal had long since come up, and the unproductive heaving should soon stop.

But it didn't, and Blair began to worry. Dry-heaves like this were awful; they hurt like hell, and some strange psychological rebound effect kept the cycle going.

So Blair leaned closer, placing as much of his chest against Jim's back as he could, trying to give comfort by simple body contact. Instead of just cradling Jim's stomach, he pressed hard against the diaphragm, holding it like he would grab a charley horse in his calf. And he brought his hand back from Jim's forehead, running it through his hair, stroking his head to soothe him. Jim was shaking all over now and having a difficult time breathing.

"Come on, Jim. Just slow down. Slow down, that's it. It'll be okay, I promise," Blair murmured. His back was beginning to ache, and his own stomach was cramping in sympathy. "Shhh... shhh... It's okay. Just breathe slow. Come on, you can do it."

Gradually the time between bouts began to increase, and Jim began to breathe easier. He was still shaking, though, so Blair held on. "See, that's it. It's getting better. Just take it slow. It's okay..."

Jim was breathing steadily now, and had spit a few times to clear his mouth. Blair shifted a bit, trying to ease his aching back and silently adding to his list of reasons why it sucks to be short. He was just beginning to wonder how he would keep Jim from getting too embarrassed about this incident when he heard a wretched "Oh, no" and felt Jim tense up again.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. Last time, I promise. Just ride it out," Blair said, but he could tell Jim wasn't listening. He was shaking his head in distress, his breathing erratic, when a wave of nausea hit again. This time it was short lived, but Jim couldn't calm down again. His breath was staggered, and he seemed acutely uncomfortable, muscles rock hard, arms and legs shaking.

Blair was starting to get annoyed. He knew that after a few more minutes of this he wouldn't be able to hold Jim up any longer, and it was clear that Jim was no longer listening to him. "Jim, come on, stop it," he said in a kind, but firm, voice. "It's over... Jim?" And then as quick as a flash of lightning, he understood. Jim was crying. It was incredible. Unheard of. The man of steel, the one whose every emotion sublimated into anger, was so miserable...

"Oh, Jim." Blair's eye's stung in sympathy and he shifted to hug Jim tightly, cradling his broad back and resting his cheek on Jim's shoulder. The quiet shaking continued while Blair held him and murmured a steady stream of soft, unimportant phrases. He wasn't sure what he was saying--the words fell together without thought--but they came from his heart, and the warmth of his voice carried the familiar message from Guide to Sentinel. It didn't matter that he was shivering in the cold, or standing over a vomit-spattered forest floor, or that his back ached with the strain of holding up his friend; everything had vanished beyond the solid feel of the body in his possession and the tormented spirit it contained.

[Please, please, please...] He wasn't sure what he was begging for, but the plea came unbidden as he struggled to ignore his own heartsick response to Jim's pain. [Please, he doesn't deserve this.] He stopped talking as his own throat squeezed shut, then swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. [Don't you dare fall apart now, Sandburg! He's your responsibility and you're the only one who can help him through this.]

Unwelcome images paraded through Blair's mind; Jim shouting at him, out of control, pinning him against the brick wall of the loft, terrified glacial eyes staring at him, begging Blair to reject him while daring him to save him. Fear stoked in Blair's belly, mixing uneasily with the heartache, and with a perfect clarity Blair saw the web of faith, doubt, fear and trust that bound them together in friendship. It was all tied together, the awful struggle for control and the absolute need for submission. The brief, wondrous times when Jim freely allowed him into his world were bought and paid for by the wrenching moments like this. So Blair held him close and "We'll get through this, Jim. I promise. I promise" was all he said.

Jim's hitched breathing calmed slowly, and Blair waited for the subtle shift that would shut him out again. [I don't know why this is happening now, but we'll get through it.] Blair followed the play of hard muscles beneath his body as Jim's hand wiped his eyes, then his mouth. A few deep breaths followed, growing in confidence, and Blair gave a reassuring squeeze. Jim wiped his face again, sniffed his runny nose and spit a few times, then broke Blair's hold as he swung upright.

Jim stood unsteadily, his face averted and downcast. Red blotches spread from high cheekbones to nose, overprinting his incredibly pale skin in a stark mask. [For a guy who can make women swoon on sight, he doesn't exactly cry prettily,] Blair noted with some satisfaction. [Oh, grow up,] another part of his mind suggested. [You know damn well that, crying or not, he's still attractive.] Only 'attractive' wasn't the word that had sprung to mind. No, the word his inner voice had used was *hot*. As he argued to himself about the validity of such a small difference, he felt his face grow warm at what he had just confessed to himself.

A belligerent [Yeah? So what?] was forming in his mind when Jim pitched forward. Instantly all introspection vanished and Blair moved to catch him. But before he made contact, Jim's far hand connected with the tree, and he regained his balance. Instinctively knowing that Jim didn't want to be touched, Blair lowered his hands and silently acknowledged that he wanted to wrap his arms around Jim, locking their bodies together until Jim was forced to hug him back. [That's all I want. I just want you to hug me back. To let me know that you care about me the way I care about you.]

[And you won't ever do it, will you?] This line of thought was totally pointless. He knew the score when he signed on and couldn't go changing the rules now. But he hadn't expected it to be this hard. Not at all. He hadn't expected to get so caught up in it, to get so involved that he couldn't envision a life without it. Without Jim. And never had he wanted to reach that point where someone else's life meant more to him than his own. That was too dangerous. It led down the path of possession and dependence, where he had learned at his mother's knee never to go.

But a part of him realized he was already there. When at night behind his closed eyes he would see Jim holding his gun, then pulling the trigger, he should have known the first steps had been taken. And when he began to see that gun pointed at him, the black hole of the barrel matching the black of Jim's eyes, he should have known he could never go back. Lost on this road, all he could do was hope that it would take him where he needed to go.

He ignored the dead feeling inside him and forced himself to pay attention to Jim. Jim was his job, after all. Unwilling to meet his eyes, Blair studied Jim's hand instead. The sun shone wearily down, dusting the scattered hair with a reddish flare. The expressive fingers spread wide over the rough bark in a perfect balance of structure and power. Suddenly the hand clutched the tree hard and Blair's tolerance snapped. [I'll be damned if I'm picking him up off the ground.] He took a step forward and grabbed Jim's free arm before his knees totally buckled. Moving slowly through the tangled undergrowth, he led Jim stumbling to a knee-high fallen tree a few paces away.

As Jim half-collapsed onto the broad trunk, Blair remarked lightly, "Gee, Big Guy, for a moment there I thought we weren't going to make it."

No response. The strain of moving Jim had made his arms ache, and he rubbed the tender spots where Jim had seized him earlier. It hurt more to touch them, and he was sure there would be bruises later, but the pain in his muscles was better than the pain in his head or his heart. Head, heart, hands... sounded like the goddamn 4-H Club. With a shadow of annoyance, Blair shook the irrelevant thought aside and tried to focus on Jim. He was just sitting there, head down, mute, unresponsive.

Blair reached out a tentative hand to cup Jim's chin, but Jim flinched dismissively away. Blair dropped his hand, reluctant to push too hard. "Jim? You okay?" Blair swallowed. "Jim? C'mon, man, you're scaring me."

[Which isn't half the truth,] he added to himself. Dropping his mild tone, he said roughly, "Jim, I mean it, now. Look at me."

This worked. Jim straightened and raised his head as Blair looked into the expressionless face, trying to gauge the level of shock. It wasn't easy. With his own pounding heart and see-sawing emotions, he didn't know what to think. "Jim, you okay?"

Now a slow nod, and Blair felt a flicker of relief. He watched as Jim brought his hand up and wiped his mouth. Once, twice. "You want me to get some water from the truck?" he asked. Unfocused eyes swept over Blair's face, but there was no trace of a response. "I'll go get the water," Blair said, dumbly.

[Water. Water. Okay. Something I can do.] While there was a twinge of guilt and worry about leaving Jim alone, part of him reasoned that maybe it was what he needed. Fundamentally, Jim was a loner, after all. But as he took the first steps away and felt the urge to run, Blair knew that he was going for the water because *he* needed to get away. He couldn't stand it, that blank look that made him feel broken inside, and now he was running, pushing through the forest then pounding down the road toward Jim's truck. It felt good to run, to feel the air flame through his lungs, to move out from that dreadful inertia.

He dug around in Jim's emergency box for the bottled water, and when he found it he cracked it open and took a long pull, stopping only to gasp for air. He screwed the top back on and looked down the road. At the end of it, just beyond the turn, was a grim body slowly cooling in the afternoon sun. And further beyond that sat his partner. He started jogging down the road, and when he reached the cabin purposely skirted the body, heading toward Jim.

Jim was sitting in the same place, staring down at something in his hands. A shadow, something dark. Something dark, spread like a stain across the palms of his upturned hands. A bough swished down, blocking Blair's view, and when he shoved past it, he knew what it was.

The nightmare image of Jim coolly aiming the gun at him rushed into his mind. [No.] He could see Jim doing it; slowly raising the weapon with his two-handed grip, arms straight out in front, then the characteristic twist of the head as he aligned the sights, Sentinel eyes flat, leaden. Blair couldn't move. He was struck immobile, caught in the stare . All he could do was wait for the flash... [Oh, god, NO!]

At the resounding denial in his head, another image rose smoothly to take its place. Now the gun came up in only one hand, profiled as Jim brought it sluggishly to his own temple. Jim's bleak eyes screamed at him to do something, anything, as he helplessly began to pull the trigger. Impossibly, this was worse, much worse, than his earlier vision. And he couldn't let it happen. Not to Jim. Never. [No.]

He heard a choking sound and realized that it came from his own throat as he bolted over the last distance and jerked to a stop in front of Jim. Breathing hard, he looked down at the gun still in Jim's hands, held like an offering across the long fingers. Blue eyes, arctic-bleak, met his.

There was no hesitation when he reached out for the gun, only a clear sense of fate. He held Jim's eyes, trying to convey everything he felt, everything that held them together in this fragile world. His hand closed around the gun and lifted it free. Jim's eyebrows drew down in a straight line as the gun left his hands, but his eyes were locked to Blair's and saw nothing else.

The gun was strangely heavy in Blair's right hand, as if the pull of the earth had arbitrarily increased. He pushed the water bottle into Jim's waiting hands, watching in dazed relief as Jim unscrewed the cap and tilted his head to drink. Blair swiftly unloaded the gun, involuntarily flashing back to the lessons Jim had given him. Thumb the magazine release, pull it out, clear the chamber, close the slide. The magazine went in a pocket and the weapon went in his waistband at the small of his back. Jim certainly hadn't taught him that, but there was nothing else to do with it, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give it back. It was an odd feeling, and a reluctant thrill of power and control shivered up his spine as the harsh smell of gunpowder rose around him.

Jim watched him with a curious expression, holding the bottle half-lowered from his mouth. Blair waited cautiously, unsure of Jim's reaction. Time froze for a heartbeat, then two, before Jim's eyes betrayed his fear as they widened in recognition of all that had passed. The bottle slipped neatly from his grasp, and Blair watched it fall, flashing quietly in the late sun. He jumped when it hit the ground with a thud, then found himself dragged into a rough embrace. Jim wrapped his arms around Blair's waist, burying his face against his stomach. Blair's arms automatically cradled Jim to him, his hand at the base of his neck, his thumb slowly caressing the tender skin.

He lowered his head, hair falling forward in a curtain of sunlit fire to close them off from the outside world. Jim's warm breath, his warm body, was a slow incandescence flowing through Blair's core. He felt he could stand here forever. And when Jim's shaking subsided and he still didn't release Blair, he thought he just might.

Finis.


End file.
